Do I look like someone who has something to do here on earth?' —That's what I'd like to answer the busybodies who inquire into my activities.

Melancholy: an appetite no misery satisfies.

As art sinks into paralysis, artists multiply. This anomaly ceases to be one if we realize that art, on its way to exhaustion, has become both impossible and easy.

Basis of society: anonymous sweat.

There is not much difference between a mortal man and a dying man. The absurdity of making plans is only slightly more obvious in the second case.

The desire to die was my one and only concern; to it I have sacrificed everything, even death.

Melancholy redeems this universe, and yet it is melancholy that separates us from it.